Instability
by chicagochicklett
Summary: You don’t know where you should be right now…with your daughter fighting the battles of prematurity or close to Allison in case things get worse than they already are..." A House/Cameron baby fic.
1. Chapter 1

Hello, readers! I am a longtime fanfiction reader but until now never tried my hand at writing. This is my first fanfiction story and I am very excited to share it! I am a fan of the House/Cameron pairing, so if that is not your thing, turn back now.

This is an House/Cameron baby!fic that is quite angsty but that won't always be the case.

_Reviews with comments, questions or __constructive criticism are welcome and greatly appreciated. However, flaming and comments that bash the House/Cameron pairing will not be tolerated. If you do not like this pairing, then please do not waste my time and yours by reading and leaving angry comments._

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**Instability**

**Chapter 1**

You look toward the operating room doors and the sounds of the doctor shouting, monitors beeping, and you yelling are still ringing in your ears. You feel like you're about to go into shock, too. You can't move and you feel rooted to the floor. You want to know what's going on with your wife, you want to be _there_, with her, with _Allison_.

And then you remember your daughter is struggling herself in the NICU down the hall, having been whisked away from you n a whirlwind of motion. You want to be with _her_, too…to see her and touch her and _hold_ her and know she's okay.

Yet at the same time, you can't abandon your wife. Your wife who continued to bleed out even as you were hastily guided out of the OR by one of the nurses, trying to fight your way back in as Wilson grabbed your arm and pulled you away.

"House, you need to let them work on Allison. You can't be in there right now, there's nothing you can do. Come on, you need to sit down," he said firmly as he gripped your shoulders and looked you in the eye, trying to get you to accept the reality of the situation.

And so you stand still, staring straight ahead. You can't move, your mind and body frozen and numb. You don't know where you should be right now…with your daughter fighting the battles of prematurity or close to Allison in case things get worse than they already are.

You don't know how you're supposed to decide who needs you more right now. They both need you and you don't want to leave either of them. So you just keep standing and staring, hoping someone else will make the decision for you.

Because you don't think you could live with yourself if you lost one of your girls while you were with the other.

But suddenly it doesn't matter anymore because your body makes a decision for you, as your weary legs wobble and buckle beneath you. Wilson is on the ground by your side in an instant, gripping you by the shoulders and trying to help you back up. He is moving dead weight because you are of no help to him, as you continue staring straight ahead, limp and exhausted.

You have no idea how you got to the couch that sits along the hallway and you don't really care. You don't care who's around you or who saw you fall on your ass. You don't even care when you feel wetness around your eyes, or when it begins to trickle down your cheeks. You don't even realize you're crying until the sensation of Wilson's arm wrapping around your shoulders snaps you out of this thick fog.

And then you lose it.

You turn your head and bury it in the crook of Wilson's neck and close your eyes, hiccupping and weeping and, for once, not giving a damn about showing your emotions or upholding your stoic image. As your sobs turn into sniffles, you register Wilson's hand gently moving up and down your back. Then you hear his soft, soothing cancer voice in your ear and for once you are actually grateful to hear it.

"House? Why don't we go down to the NICU and see the baby?"

Your eyes are still closed as you shake your head against his neck.

"House, they're doing everything they can for Allison, and there's nothing we can do here."

You don't respond, so he continues.

"Your daughter needs you, too. You can't be with Allison right now, but you can be with her. You can be with your daughter."

_Your daughter. _

Your daughter who shouldn't have even been here for another 7 weeks. Your daughter who is down the hall, all alone in her isolette having been hastily ripped from the comfort of her mother just minutes ago.

You pick your head up from Wilson's shoulder and give a barely perceptible nod as you gaze toward the floor. Wilson's hand comes into your field of vision and you reluctantly, but gratefully reach out to accept it. He hands you your cane and close your eyes for a moment before you move any further.

You glance toward your right as you stare in the direction of the OR where your wife is on an operating table, covered in blood and being stitched together in an attempt to stop the hemorrhage.

You take a deep breath and let out a shaky, exhausted sigh. You turn your head back toward Wilson and quietly nod.

With your best friend at your side, you begin the journey down the long hallway to go see your daughter.

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_Please read and review. I thrive off of comments and they keep me motivated to continue writing!_

_-Chicklett  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

You keep your eyes cast downward, focusing on the lopsided rhythm of your gait and putting one foot in front of the other, because that's about all your brain can handle right now. You feel like a lost puppy as you blindly follow Wilson, trusting him to lead you in the right direction. You need someone else to take control right now because you sure as hell can't. And you're silently thankful - for probably the millionth time in your life - that you have Wilson, who so willingly steps in to take hold of the reigns.

You've been so focused on the ground that you don't realize you've reached the NICU until you clumsily bump into Wilson's back. The collision jolts you back to reality and you look up to see Wilson knocking on a door with a window covered in those stupid cutesy cling-ons shaped like teddy bears and bunnies.

A nurse peeks through the blinds from inside and you hear the click of the door as she opens it to greet you with a cheerful smile. You hear Wilson say something to her, but the rows of isolettes and quiet humming of machines overwhelm your senses and muffle their conversation. Your eyes are darting around the nursery, wondering which baby is yours, when feel Wilson roughly shake your shoulder.

"House, we need to scrub in before we can see her."

You blink stupidly at him with a look of confusion spread across your face, as if he's speaking to you in tongues. He raises his bushy eyebrows and gives you a concerned look that causes you to look away. You hear his soft sigh before he gently says, "Come on, the sinks are over here," and pushes you in the right direction once again.

You're vigorously lathering iodine bubbles up and down your arm when you notice you're still wearing the scrubs you changed into for Allison's surgery. You look down to examine the pale blue material and are relieved to not find any bloodstains. Your mind quickly shifts back to Allison but before it can go into overdrive, you shake your head and get back to the task at hand. You know Wilson's right -- there's nothing you can do for Allison right now, you need to be here with your baby. But it still sucks.

You finish scrubbing and fumble as you nervously put on the pale yellow gown Wilson hands you. Suited up, you grab your cane from where you set it against the wall and give Wilson a quick nod. You follow him a few feet back to the nurse who greeted you at the door.

"She's right over here," you hear the nurse say as she leads you further down the room to the fourth little bed on your right. You stop dead in your tracks as you stand in front of the plastic isolette housing a tiny red baby, covered in an even tinier diaper and laying on top of those hospital-issued pink and blue blankets.

The baby is so small and so still, you think it could just be a lifeless doll… until your eyes fall upon the quick rise and fall of her bare chest. You forget everything and everyone around you and focus intently on watching her rapidly beating heart. Your own heart is racing and pounding so hard you feel like it will burst. Blood is rushing through your ears and your eyes are wide and _oh, God,_ this is your baby, _your daughter_. You know a million things could go wrong – hell, they already have - but you ignore all your medical knowledge because right now she's here and she's safe and she's _yours_.

You feel your chest getting tighter and tighter and then realize you've been holding your breath for what seems like an eternity. The nurse must have realized it, too, because she gently touches your back and guides you toward the rocking chair next you, telling you to sit down and that she'll bring the baby to you so you can hold her.

You look up at her, wide-eyed with what's sure to be a look of shock on your face. You open your mouth slightly but nothing comes out because you don't know what to say. Your baby wasn't even supposed to be here yet and you were expecting to have another 7 weeks to get used to the reality that you were going to be a father. It's not that you didn't want the baby… you _do_­ – you _both_ do.

And that's what scares you. You both wanted this baby so badly but you're not _ready_. You're not ready to hold her, to do this on your own without Allison by your side. She shouldn't be here yet, she should still be wrapped in the warm cocoon of her mother, not _here_ in a plastic box covered in tubes and wires with her mother fighting for her own life down the hall.

But it doesn't seem to matter if you're ready or not, because suddenly a small bundle of blanket is being handed to you. Your brain has no idea what to do, but apparently your arms do, because they instinctively move to the right position so the nurse can delicately place the baby into the cradle of your arms

And that's when your heart stops.

You stare down at this beautiful creature, this tiny person who's a stranger yet so familiar, and you are stunned at how your heart swells with love for her. You slowly and carefully sink back into the rocker and shift your arms so she fits snuggly in your embrace. After sitting motionless just staring at her for several long moments, you get the urge to rock. You never thought you'd be a rocking chair kind of guy, but you can't deny the overwhelming instinct to move with your baby in that soothing back-and-forth motion. You slowly push yourself back, testing the chair, and then let the rhythm take over.

For the first time today, a sense of calm and comfort washes over you. And as you close your eyes and revel in the warmth seeping from your baby's body into yours, the tears that have been pooling behind your eyelids finally leak out and trickle down your cheeks.

You lose all sense of time and place as you're completely hypnotized by the feel of your daughter in your arms and the repetitive _back-and-forth, back-and-forth_ of the rocker. But at some point, a strong hand on your shoulder pulls you out of the trance.

You startle at the touch and glance to your left to see Wilson crouching down next to you, holding on to the rocker with one hand while the other rests on your shoulder. You were so engrossed in the feel of your little girl against your body, you forgot that Wilson, the nurse, and the rest of the nursery were still there.

You don't miss the soft smile on Wilson's face or the way he whispers quietly so as not to disturb the baby and all her roommates. "House, why don't I go see if I can get an update on Allison while you stay here with the baby?"

Allison. You were so captivated by your daughter that for a few minutes your forgot about your wife. Your can feel your heart rate pick up speed again as your worry for Allison comes flooding back. But movement from the bundle in your arms quickly tears your attention away from those thoughts and back to rocking as you make your first fatherly attempt to soothe your squirming daughter.

Wilson gives you one last pat on the shoulder before telling you he'll be right back. You have two more reasons to add to your ever-growing list of why you're one lucky bastard to have Wilson as your friend. Not only is he going to check up on Allison for you, but he also knows you so well, knows this can't be easy for you, and this is his way of giving you the privacy you didn't even know you needed.

As you listen to Wilson's footsteps fade away, you close your eyes again and continue rocking your daughter, hoping, praying to whoever might be listening, that everything will be okay.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much to those who have left wonderful reviews so far. I noticed this story has gotten over 600 hits so far, but only 10 reviews. :( I'm not complaining, but for those who read the story and enjoy it and don't review, please consider taking the time to leave a review, even if it's a few words. Reviews really encourage and motivate authors. Personally, it makes the time I take to write the story seem worth it if others are enjoying it and express that. So just consider leaving a little review, not just for this story but for other writers' stories. They are greatly appreciated. _

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**Chapter 3**

With Wilson down the hall and the nurse occupied elsewhere, this is your first moment alone with your daughter and you feel your throat constrict from all the emotions building inside. You tighten your arms around the baby, drawing her even closer to you, and take a few shuddered breaths. You will your body to relax and focus on breathing slowly and deeply, in and out, through your nose.

You finally succumb to the hypnotic effect of the rocking chair, because you know this isn't going to last and you want to stay in this peaceful oblivion as long as you can. Because, even though you're always forcing others to face their reality, you're pretty sure you've earned a few minutes of calm in this nice little bubble after the hell you've been through in the last 12 hours.

You continue rocking for a little longer, until your obsessive need to know everything gets the best of you and bursts the bubble. Your eyes blink open and you stare down at the little girl in your arms for a few seconds before raising your head and searching for that cheerful nurse.

You spot her obnoxiously bright yellow scrub top hovering over a bassinet across the room and watch her, hoping to get her attention. Glancing up, she catches you looking at her and gives you a big sunny smile before telling you she'll be right over.

You turn back to the baby and, for the first time, you really _look_ at her. You were too overwhelmed when she was first placed in your arms to take in more than her overall appearance. So, you start inspecting and memorizing every inch of her tiny body, wanting to know every minute detail, from the curve of her ears to the length of her toes.

The first thing your eyes focus on is her little nose, in part because all the tubes running up it are glaringly obvious and essential for her survival at this point.

And…_possibly_ because you just might think her button nose is pretty damn cute, even though you'd never admit it to anyone.

Eyeing the nasal cannula and NG tube, you're pretty impressed that your daughter is such a trooper for tolerating all that plastic stuffed up her tiny nostrils. She must have inherited her mother's stoic nature, because you sure as hell would be clawing at your face and ripping the tubes out if you were in her place.

You move on to the rest of her face and notice the brown wisps of hair sticking out from under her knitted hat. You hesitate a moment before cautiously moving your hand to gently lift the side of her hat. Taking a quick peek, you can't help but smile at the fine downy curls that cover her little head. You extend one finger to delicately stroke the side of her head and are amazed at how soft and silky her hair feels.

Just as you're about to continue your little "inspection," Nurse Sunshine makes her way over to the rocking chair.

"What can I do for you, Dr. House?" she asks you gently, with that perpetual smile on her face.

"I…uh…I…" you stumble like a complete idiot, "So…how's she doing?" you finally manage to get out. "And don't give me the watered-down version; I'm a doctor, I can handle the big boy words," you say, trying to recover from your initial stutter with a little bit of snark. You're not used to playing the role of patient's family member and it's throwing you way off balance.

The nurse takes a beat to blink at you and then says "Okay," before pulling a chair over to sit next to you.

"She's actually doing really well," she begins. "Certainly much better than when she was delivered."

"She wasn't breathing," you whisper almost inaudibly, recalling the overwhelming fear you felt at seeing your baby born blue, silent, and lifeless and watching the NICU team resuscitate her from where you stood beside the operating table.

"No, she wasn't," the nurse says softly as her smile fades for the first time. "Her one-minute APGAR was only 3, but luckily chest compressions and bagging her were enough to get her breathing started and she didn't need to be intubated."

Luckily? you think to yourself. Yeah, your daughter was so lucky that she needed a _plastic bag_ pumping air into her lungs and fingers pounding on her chest to help her breathe. Still…you can't deny the pure joy and relief you felt when you heard your baby let out a piercing cry for the first time.

"Once she was bagged, she pinked up and started moving around and her five-minute APGAR was much better at a 7. Right now, she's stable breathing on her own with help from the nasal cannula…"

"How much oxygen is she on?" you cut her off sharply, not wanting her to skimp on any details.

She looks slightly taken aback by your abruptness before she regains her professionalism. "We have her on 3 liters at 40% at the moment. Her blood gases improved with the oxygen and her O2 sats are around 90. We ordered a chest x-ray and we'll be monitoring her closely for any signs of RDS."

She pauses, allowing you take everything in as your gaze drops back down to the small bundle in your arms.

You actually _are_ grateful she's only requiring nasal oxygen and not a ventilator for two reasons: one, it means she's doing _okay_, all things considered, and two, the cannula is small enough that you can still see most of her face, except for where the tubing is taped on her cheeks.

There are tubes shoved up her nose and she's wrinkled and small and has that typical newborn alien-look going on, and yet you're amazed at how utterly beautiful and…_perfect_ she is. You always thought newborns were kind of weird looking and never understood how parents could gush about how their bald, cone-headed baby that resembled Elmer Fudd was _oh-so_ adorable.

But, here you are, staring down at your baby girl and overwhelmed by this beautiful creature who grew from a single cell. Thirty-three weeks later, and here she is, a complete human being, just small and not quite fully mature.

_God_, she's so small.

"How much does she weigh?" you ask, raising your eyes back up to the nurse.

"3 pounds, 8 ounces."

_Whoa_, she's even tinier than you expected.

"She is slightly small for her gestational age, probably because of intrauterine growth restriction related to..."

"Decreased placental perfusion from the preeclampsia," you finish for her.

She nods her head in agreement before continuing. "Yes, most likely. We'll be giving her gavage feedings through the NG tube for a week or two, until she's mature enough to coordinate breathing and sucking and swallowing from a bottle."

You stay silent, understanding everything she's saying, but trying hard to digest the gravity of your daughter's situation. This isn't how things were supposed to happen. You were expecting Allison to have a smooth birth (okay, maybe not _as_ smooth, if she ended up following her plan of a natural birth instead of listening to your advice about the perks of an epidural), and that you'd bring home a healthy seven-pound baby. But instead, everything went horribly wrong, like straight out of some fucking _Lifetime_ movie. And you hate that everything is now out of your control.

When a few minutes have passed and you still haven't said anything, the nurse carries on.

"Our goals right now are to help her gain weight and to make sure she's breathing adequately and getting enough oxygen. She'll also have to stay in the isolette until she's able to maintain her body temperature. Her energy needs to be focused on growing and breathing, not on keeping herself warm. And we just need to take things one day at a time."

"Right," you respond softly, bobbing your head up and down in agreement.

"Have you picked out a name for her?"

You stare at her, almost confused by her question. "Um, no...not yet." You and Allison had tossed around a few names, but you still hadn't decided on one, or more accurately, you couldn't agree on one. And with everything that happened today, you sure as hell aren't going to name her without Allison. At this point, you'd probably be okay with whatever Allison wanted to name her.

"That's okay. Just let me know when you've picked something out." Standing up, the nurse places a gentle hand on your shoulder and gives you a warm smile. "And please let me know if you need anything."

As she turns to leave, your voice stops her. "Uh…what was your name again?"

"Suzie," she smiles. _Nurse Suzie Sunshine_, you think. _Perfect_.

"Thank you, Suzie," you say quietly but sincerely.

"You're welcome, Dr. House," she replies before going off to check on another baby.

And you and your daughter are alone, again. She has one hell of a long road ahead of her, but she's here and she's stable and you're going to take comfort in that.

If Allison has taught you anything, it's that it's okay to risk being happy. You took a huge risk opening yourself up to Allison two years ago, and things turned out okay...actually, _better_ than okay. So, for probably only the second time in your mostly miserable life, you're going to try to let yourself be happy… because you're _pretty_ sure your daughter is worth it. You owe it to her, to Allison - hell, you owe it to yourself - to be happy that your baby is alive and breathing, even if she is two months early and can't fully function on her own.

To be grateful that she and Allison didn't die together in the OR as you stood by and watched.

You don't know how Allison's doing or if she even survived the surgery, but you _do_ have your daughter. It goes against everything you've ever believed in, but you're desperately trying to focus on the _good_, to focus all your energy on your baby girl, on loving her and keeping her safe, because it's all you can do right now….

Until Wilson comes back and you find out what the future holds for your -- dare you say it --_family_.

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_Some terms related to Baby House's condition, for those interested...._

**APGAR**: A score out of 10 given to babies at 1-minute and 5-minutes after delivery. They are given a score from 0-2 for each of five categories: heart rate, breathing, crying, muscle tone, and irritability, for a max score of 10. For example, a baby born blue would get a 0 while a nice pink baby would get a 2. A baby with a total score of 6 or below is in trouble.

**RDS**: Respiratory Distress Syndrome often occurs in premature infants whose lungs are not mature enough to breathe on their own.

**IUGR (intrauterine growth restriction):** This is when a fetus' growth is restricted and they are smaller than they should be. It often occurs when there is decreased blood flow from the mom's placenta to the baby, so the baby is not receiving enough nutrients to grow. In Cameron's case, IUGR was caused by preeclampsia - a condition of severe high blood pressure that is dangerous to mom and baby. High blood pressure restricts blood flow to the baby. More on that in the next chapter.

**NG Tube**: Naso-gastric feeding tube that goes up the nose and down into the stomach to provide liquid nourishment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** _My deepest apologies for taking so long to get this chapter out. I feel like I owe you all a much longer chapter for making you wait! But unfortunately real life caught up with me and it took me a while to get everything written. But, I felt obligated to get this out after last night's dismal episode of House and the departure of the wonderful Jennifer Morrison and Cameron. :( Hopefully this will help you guys forget about the complete downfall of the show in the past 2 years.  
_

_I'll be starting my 5-week holiday vacation next week, so I hope to really churn out more chapters and finish this story Thanks to everyone who's read so far!_

_**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except baby House. All other characters (and bad canon) belong to David Shore.  
_

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**Chapter 4**

You keep rocking and just as you're starting to wonder where the hell Wilson is, you hear the distinct sound of knocking. You whip your head around toward the sound coming from behind you and feel your pulse quicken as you watch Suzie Sunshine move to open the door.

Panic immediately fills you the moment Wilson enters the room. You've been both anxiously awaiting and dreading his return because, even though it's been killing you to not know what's going on with Allison, you're still not ready to have your world – and your daughter's – shattered if the news is bad.

Wilson glances in your direction and catches you looking over your shoulder, staring at him wide-eyed. However, when he suddenly he turns away, you furrow your eyebrows in confusion and anger and are on the verge of shouting, "Where the hell are you going?!" across the quiet room. And then you notice him grabbing one of those protective yellow gowns from the cart near the sink where you'd scrubbed in.

You're starting to seethe inside because you can't believe he's leaving you in the dark that much longer so he can put that stupid gown on. Your wife – the mother of your child – could be dead, and he's still following the rules in typical Wilson fashion.

After rolling your eyes at the way he meticulously secures the ties on the gown, you lock your eyes with his as he slowly makes his way over to you.

You can feel the lump in your throat growing and your chest tightening. You try to swallow, but can't. You grip the baby tighter in your arms as Wilson sits down in the chair across from you.

You stare at him pleadingly, searching his eyes for answers and not giving a damn that he can see the desperation on your face. Your heart is pounding inside your chest, you can't breathe, and it feels like you're drowning. No, more like having a heart attack while you're drowning.

_Damnit, Wilson, just spit it out!_

Wilson blinks down and lets out a loud sigh before looking you in the eye. "She's stable."

_Oh, my God._

Your jaw drops in pure shock and you can finally come up for air. You lean your head back against the rocking chair, squeeze your eyes shut and let out the breath you'd been holding for so long. You feel like one of those kids in an old Baywatch episode, who was rescued from drowning and finally starts coughing up seawater as the lifeguard does CPR. Except it's Wilson who's pulled you out the water, instead of Carmen Electra giving you mouth-to-mouth. Wilson may not have Carmen's hot bod, but he's one hell of a good friend.

You never thought two little words could have such an instant, monumental impact on your life. Okay, so that other two-word phrase that Cameron uttered to you seven months ago sure packed a punch – in a good way, you admit - but damnit, right now those two simple words that left Wilson's mouth just might be even more powerful.

You open your eyes again to see Wilson staring at you dumbly with a half-smile on his face. You still think it's too early for any smiling.

You want to know more, you need to know more. Your brain overpowers your heart, and you remember that just because she's stable now doesn't mean she'll stay that way.

Your throat is still clogged up and you don't think you can squeeze any words out, so you raise your eyebrows, trying to convey that you want details. You're grateful that Wilson has known you for so long, because he understands your unspoken question and proceeds to give you a rundown.

"Well, they got her stabilized and moved her to the ICU," he tells you. "She definitely had severe HELLP, the doctor said Class I. Her liver enzymes were through the roof and her platelets plummeted." Wilson pauses for a moment and you notice him take a deep breath before continuing. "She, uh…she was starting to go into DIC when you left."

"She was bleeding out," you whisper softly, your voice breaking as you remember the sheer volume of dark red blood that was pouring out of her as a nurse hastily guided you out of the OR.

Wilson's eyes soften and he gives you the look of empathy that he's mastered as a seasoned oncologist. You have to shift your eyes away, because you know that look is nothing but purely sincere and it makes you uncomfortable to be the recipient of such sympathy.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Her platelets got down to 30. It took 7 units of FFP and 8 units of platelets to finally get the bleeding under control. Her heart seems to be okay, but it looks like she has acute renal failure and her LFTs indicate some liver failure. It might take a while, but her liver and kidney function should start to improve now that she's stable."

You shift your head away and squeeze your eyes shut tight, hoping to hold back the tears that you feel prickling your eyes.

"She's lucky, House," you hear Wilson say softly.

You let out a weak, heartless laugh and shake your head.

"She is. She could have died, but she didn't..."

"She could still die," you hiss, cutting him off.

"Yes, you're right, she could still die," he agrees. "But she's stable. They got the baby out in time. They got the bleeding under control and they're monitoring her closely in case anything changes. She's stable; the baby's stable. You have to hold onto that, House."

You think you can barely hold on at all.

You study the tiny pink bundle pressed snuggly against your chest and think maybe…maybe, she can help you hold it together enough so you don't completely fall apart.

You push back slightly to start rocking again, and, with a shuttered breath and your head still down, you nod at Wilson. You know he's right, and you want to have…_hope_, and yet, within seconds your brain is already in overdrive, thinking about Allison and the baby in your arms.

You are so zoned out that you forget – for the second time today – that Wilson is still there, until you finally register him calling your name.

When you peer up at him, he observes you with concerned eyes and asks if you want to go down to the ICU to see Allison. You bob your head up and down because you don't trust your voice right now.

"Okay," he says with a slight smile. "Good. I think I, uh, I'll hit the men's room and then wait outside while you get the baby settled. And then we'll go, okay?"

_Typical Wilson, still in full form_. You're actually glad he's giving you the privacy to say goodbye to your daughter without an audience. You've never felt very comfortable handling babies, especially newborns, because they seem so fragile. And with your baby's small size and all the wires and tubes, you'd rather not have someone hovering over you when you clumsily maneuver her back into the isolette.

Off your nod, Wilson gets up from the chair across from you and gives you a small pat on your left shoulder before turning to leave.

As you watch him head for the blue soiled linen bin, you remember something that has been in the far back of your mind since this disastrous day began. "Wilson," you croak, before he can strip off his yellow gown.

"Yeah?" he asks you, turning back around.

"I need you to do something for me," you say, looking him in the eye.

"Of course. Anything," he says, and you know he means it.

You shift your eyes around and gnaw on your bottom lip before continuing. "Can you call my mom?"

You feel pathetic, the same way you did when you were six and called home, crying to be picked up from your first sleepover because you missed Mommy. You remember how relieved you were when your mom arrived to take you home…and how ashamed you were when your dad scolded you for being _a sissy_ and _a baby_ and lectured you about taking things like a man. You remember curling up in your bed and crying – _like a baby_ – into your pillow after he'd left, and wanting your mom even more.

And now here you are, fifty years old, and still a mama's boy.

Wilson blinks at you, no doubt surprised by your unexpected request. Nevertheless, he quickly agrees. "Sure, of course I can call her. Uh, what do you want me to tell her?"

You pause for a moment to consider how much your mom should know. You want her to have an idea of what's happened, but you know how emotional and worried she gets when it comes to anything medical. And God knows she loves Allison like her own daughter and she's waited all this time for a grandchild she never thought she'd have. Yeah, probably best to keep the details to a minimum.

"Just…tell her what happened. But give her the watered-down version and spare her all the scary medical details, otherwise she'll freak out."

Wilson chuckles softly and says okay. He turns to leave again, but stops to ask if you want your mother to fly out here.

That pathetic feeling returns, but you just don't give a damn anymore. Your wife is in the ICU, your baby's in an incubator, and, while Wilson's been a better friend than you could deserve, you just want your mom here with you. And even though you normally accept your mother's hugs with reluctance, at this moment you want nothing more than to feel her comforting arms around you and breathe in her familiar scent.

"Tell her to come," you murmur.

With a nod, Wilson sheds his gown and tosses it in the bin before leaving the unit for real this time.

Your eyes leave the door and flit around the room until they spot those bright yellow scrubs. Calling out across the room doesn't seem like a good idea, with all the babies sleeping and it being so quiet, so you figure maybe you should try to use a low voice. You sure as hell wouldn't want some idiot's loud bellow to disturb your daughter's sleep that she needs for growing.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out and you feel uncharacteristically shy. You swallow a few times and lick your lips, hoping that you won't sound like a dying frog before finally calling her name.

"Suzie?" you ask in a low voice that you hope she can hear.

"Yes?" she responds, looking over to you.

"I…could you, uh, help me put her back?" you stutter.

She tells you sure she can and makes her way over to you.

But when she reaches toward the baby, you open your mouth again. "I'm, ah, going to go to the ICU, to see my wife," you explain, feeling like you should justify leaving your brand new baby so soon.

But it doesn't seem to be necessary, because she says, "Of course," and gives you an understanding nod.

She extends her arms and slides her experienced hands under the blanket to lift the baby as you hand her over. Your arms feel cold and empty and you're unnerved by the overwhelming sense of loss that fills you the moment your daughter leaves your arms.

Suzie expertly places the baby back in her isolette, carefully untangling and arranging the wires coming out of the blanket. But as soon as the nurse closes the door to the isolette, the baby begins to grimace and squirm, letting out a weak cry that tears at your heart. She's probably just unhappy about being moved and misses the heat from your body, but you can't help but wonder if she knows who you are.

You stand up from the rocking chair and press your left hand to the plastic bed and gaze down at her. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay," you whisper to her quiet enough so the nurse can't hear. The baby takes a few shuttered breaths and then starts to settle back down.

"I'll be back, kiddo," you reassure her, even though she has no clue what your saying.

You let your hand linger on the isolette for a little longer and watch your daughter fall back to sleep. You stare at her angelic face one last time before leaving and feel the wetness building beneath your tired eyes.

"I love you," you choke, as the tears finally spill over and run down your face.

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_Please read and review! I thrive on your comments and appreciate them greatly! Even though it's angsty, I hope this cheers people up in light of the show's events last night!_


	5. Chapter 5, Part a

_ Yes, it's been three long months since I updated this fic! I am so sorry for the delay. Holidays weren't as laid back as I expected and then I left my notebook that I write fanfic in at home in Pennsylvania and had to wait for the mama to send it. Now I'm in the thick of my toughest quarter of my graduate nursing program. Oh, and I took up crocheting, which I've been focusing on in my spare time.__  
_  
But do not fear - I WILL finish this story, it just might come in shorter chapters, that are spaced apart. This was chapter is actually the first 1/3 of the original chapter I had planned, but I decided to give you guys something to whet your whistle instead of making you all wait while I churn out another 1,000 words.

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**Instability Chapter 5**

After giving nurse Suzie explicit instructions to page you if _anything_ changes, you exit the NICU and spot Wilson leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. Hearing the door click shut, he jerks his head in your direction and you know by the look on his face that he sees the red tinge to your eyes.

"I'm gonna…" you start, pointing with your thumb toward the restroom, trying to convey your message without having to speak the rest. "I'll…be back in a minute," you say, limping away hurriedly before waiting for Wilson's reply.

You open the door to the staff bathroom, relieved that it's a single person stall. You quickly flip the latch to lock the door and then lean back against it with your eyes squeezed shut. After taking a few slow, deep breaths, you open your eyes to see yourself in the mirror. You hang your cane on a hook that attached to the wall and slowly limp over to the sink to get a closer look.

Your cheeks are blotchy and your eyes are glassy, bloodshot and swollen with dark, puffy circles underneath, unmistakable evidence that you've been crying.

You look old. You _feel_ old. And you feel like shit.

You can't remember ever feeling this exhausted, this drained…even back in your days as an intern when you were on your feet for 36 hours straight.

You turn the faucet on, lean over the sink, and splash cold water on your face a few times. It feels ridiculously good right now.

Grabbing a handful of paper towels, you pat your face dry and check the mirror again.

_Not much better_, you think.

You square your shoulders and straighten up, trying to pull yourself together. But you're not fooling anyone, including yourself.

You unlock the door and return to the hallway to meet Wilson, who appears to have fallen asleep while standing, slumped against the wall with his head tilted back and eyes closed. The heavy thud of your cane and uneven gait startle him and he opens his brown eyes to find your bloodshot ones gazing over at him.

"Ready?" he asks, scrubbing a hand over his face before pushing off the wall.

You give a nod, which is quickly becoming your default response, and start walking alongside Wilson down the hall toward the elevator.

Only after you're inside the private confines of the elevator does Wilson begin to relay his conversation with your mother.

"I got a hold of your mom," he tells you. "She's going to try and get the first available flight out of Louisville. She said she'd call once she had the flight information."

You let out a quiet sigh, almost one of relief, because you don't think you've ever been more…_excited?_...about seeing your mother. You actually can't wait for the moment you see her and her gentle arms embrace you in a warm hug.

"How'd she, you know, take everything?" you ask, unable to hide the edge of concern in your voice.

Wilson puffs out his cheeks and lets out the air slowly. "She sounded pretty upset, worried," he says, wrinkling his forehead and twitching those bushy eyebrows of his. "She…started crying."

You close your eyes and wince, picturing your mom crying over her beloved daughter-in-law and only grandchild.

"She's worried about Allison, and the baby, about her being born so early." You can hear the pause before he continues. "And she's worried about…_you_, how _you're_ handling everything."

You drop your eyes to the elevator floor and run a rough hand across your tired face, pinching the bridge of your nose.

The elevator finally dings and, glancing up, you see the number for the ICU floor glowing above the elevator door.

"House?" You see Wilson already standing outside of the elevator, waiting for you to join him.

But you ignore the concern in his voice and don't answer. Instead, you hobble out of the elevator and keep your eyes cast downward, following the direction of Wilson's footsteps.

Soon, the hub of the nurses' station comes into view and you immediately look up to inspect your surroundings. The ICU is a big space of open rooms curving around the nurses' station so that staff can easily see or hear if a patient's going sour quickly. Privacy isn't a big concern in the ICU and most of the patients are within your line of vision. Your eyes begin to frantically dart around the room, searching for someone young, someone with chestnut brown locks, for _Allison_.

And then you see her. Your eyes lock onto a lifeless body, a little farther down the hall, with long brown hair spilling over the pillow and a youthful face, and you know it's _her_.

You forget Wilson and start limping down the hall with purpose.

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_If you could be so kind, please leave a little review after reading - I thrive on them and they encourage me to continue writing.  
_


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